


C'mon And Let Me Know

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Brief mention of violence against a trans person, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Just two gay male friends off to see the world, M/M, Mycroft in a Fedora, Mycroft-centric, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, POV Alternating, Pining, Really good cognac, Self-Loathing, Slow Romance, The Clash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 04:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12425259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Late one night Mycroft calls Greg for a little helping hand, and they end up discovering they have more in common than they thought. Greg's looking for a friend, and Mycroft's looking for a way to keep his expectations from exceeding reality.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edited to note: apologies for the formatting issues in the last half of the first chapter, I tried but was unable to fix it.
> 
> I'm not sure how long this will be, it started out as a slightly cracky one-shot, and then it went and changed on me. That damn Mycroft, he evokes all the feels.  
> There are some issues at play here: mostly Mycroft and his own perceptions of himself and his worth, although Greg's got his own demons. Hopefully they can work them out together.  
> I am neither British, nor a middle-aged gay man, so please forgive me if this doesn't always ring true.  
> Consider this slightly AU, as I'm basically not going to reference Series 4. I have issues with it, and it has no place here.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders

          “You understand my dilemma,” Mycroft finished, trying not to shiver at the memory. He wasn’t normally easily overwrought, but this particular encounter had been upsetting, if only because it was so unexpected…in his very own home. His beautiful, serene, private, pristine _home_. This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen here. The memories it evoked were distinctly unwelcome.

          “Oh sure,” Greg Lestrade responded, sounding as if he didn’t en _ti_ rely understand, but nonetheless was cheerfully willing. Mycroft knew the man primarily in relation to his brother, but he had observed him enough to know that the man was brave, stalwart and not squeamish. He really had been an excellent choice to help with this particular problem.

          However, it was clear the man had come from some sort of evening out, as he was slightly more nicely dressed than usual, and still bore the faint traces of cologne. He inhaled discreetly; it wasn’t Mycroft’s preferred _atelier_ but it was certainly effective. Some men were all shoulders and pheromones, damn them eternally for their ability to derail his good intentions. “I do hate to have bothered you on a Saturday,” Mycroft offered, recalling that _normal_ people usually had plans on the weekend. The rare weekends he was not obligated to work, he spent brooding in his home office, sipping silent tea at the Diogenes, or avoiding the long-distance matchmaking attempts of his mother. Somehow Mummy had yet to accept that he was _perfectly fine_ being single. “I hope I didn’t take you away from anything important.”

          “No… That is, I was on a date but ah. Well.” He rubbed an almost bashful hand on the back of his neck, changing his mind about whatever he had intended on sharing. “Naw, its fine.” He gave a lopsided smile, “Bit relieved to be honest. Nice enough but not really my type.”

          Mycroft didn’t have to imagine what his type was like; he’d seen the man’s file after all. All three of his ex-wives had been beautiful, bitchy and unfaithful. One would think the man was old enough to see the pattern and break it. Unless of course he thrived on drama and discord…he did seem to tolerate Sherlock after all, and with a shocking degree of goodwill. “Mm,” he said non-committaly.

          “You know how it is,” the other man went on, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and rather ruining the line of his (off-the-peg but acceptable) suit. Somehow it leant him an air of rakishness which was not unappealing. _Cary Grant_ , Mycroft thought, and felt faintly dizzy imagining the man in bespoke pinstripes. Dear _Lord_. “There’s only so many nights a man can sit about in his pants watching telly and eating frozen dinners.”

          Mycroft was struck by a brief but vivid recall of _last_ Saturday night, which had found him in his oldest, shabbiest dressing gown, lolling on the couch while he defiantly ate the housekeeper’s cheese doodles and ignored the healthy, sensible ready meal for one that was his intended repast. There was something so solitary and sterile and sad about the molded plastic container with the dividers to keep all the food from touching one another. Purposeful containment. As if he didn’t have enough of that in his life. “It is the bachelor’s lot, I’m afraid.”

          “You know how it is,” Lestrade laughed, the sound friendly, “after a while even a blind date starts to appeal.” His eyes, so dark they appeared black until you were close enough to see the warm gold and chestnut lights glimmering in their depths, took on a distinctly amused expression, “I thought to myself, how bad can it be? Certainly better than shouting at reruns of _Inspector Morse_.”

          “I wouldn’t know _how it is_ as I haven’t been on a date since Thatcher was in office.” He cringed instantly, wondering where his normal filter had got to. Hoping to deflect, he offered, “Despite the romanticizing of murder investigations, I must say I always did like the show.”

          That surprised a snort out of the Detective Inspector, who clearly thought he was joking. To his credit he looked remorseful when he saw Mycroft’s expression, “Somehow I suspect you’re exaggerating just a bit about Thatcher. You’re right though, for all I take exception to the liberties taken with police work, I have a very soft spot for Morse.” He sighed, “Should have stayed home alone, no matter how quiet it gets by myself.” A faint look of embarrassment, and he flicked a look up at Mycroft through his lashes, “I don’t regret the divorce, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have to come home to a flat that sort of echoes with silence.”

          “I suppose even a lackluster blind date must offer a reasonably pleasant escape from your quiet nights in,” Mycroft offered, aware of a faint heat in his cheeks but hoping he wasn’t blushing too horribly. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t blushed since he was an awkward and vulnerable young man of seventeen. It must be something about the Detective Inspector. For all his good intentions, being around the man made him revert to his school days, when he’d writhed in secret agony with crushes for the most unsuitable of boys.

          “’s right… That’s why I let Donovan set me up,” Lestrade smiled ruefully, “I _knew_ it was a bad idea, but I figured if I didn’t get out of the house and meet people someplace other than crime scenes and the gym, there was a good chance I’d turn into one of those surly bastards who shouts at the telly, and forgets how to socialize and just sits and scowls at everyone, the type what turns up to their friend’s kid’s birthday drunk and belligerent before noon.”

          “If you truly feel the need, I’m sure my mother would be most happy to introduce you to a veritable bevy of eligible women,” Mycroft fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt, wishing he had thought to roll them down and put on his waistcoat at the least. He felt strangely vulnerable as it was, and although it might have been his imagination, he rather thought the other man was staring at his _déshabillé._ “She possessed a file of some considerable size until I finally informed her that in addition to my complete disinterest in blind dates, she had compounded her error by selecting the incorrect gender.” Oh dear. His nerves were to be held responsible for _that_ entirely inappropriate revelation.

          The dark eyes regarding him registered a sort of sympathetic comradeship, but no surprise or anything less…tolerant. No doubt his younger brother had shared his orientation in some spectacularly unkind way, as was his wont. Which was rather hypocritical of him, considering he himself was homosexual—in theory if not in practice. Right, this was rapidly falling into dangerous territory. Best get matters firmly back on track…

          “If you’ll follow me, I’ll just show you where the problem lies…”

          Lestrade seemed faintly surprised, as if he had forgotten the reason for his visit, “Oh. Right, yeah…well then, ‘lay on, Macduff.’”

          Mycroft turned his head over his shoulder as he put his foot on the third step, “Oh,” he said, strangely pleased by this small thing, “’And damned be him that first cries “Hold, enough!’” He felt a smile tugging at his mouth, as he turned to face him fully, “Most people think it is “Lead on, Macduff” which is quite incorrect.”

          “I was in a dramatics club when I was at school,” the inspector grinned, tipping his head back a bit, and then closing the gap between their heights by stepping up onto the bottom step. “I wasn’t particularly keen on Shakespeare, but I was really keen on this very arty type who wore specs and always carried around thick books and could quote old Willy by the barrelful.”

          “Oh?” Mycroft reminded himself to swallow, “I’m sure she was a very learned young woman.” He watched, slightly puzzled, as Lestrade brushed past him and started up the stairs, for all the world as if he knew where they were going.

          Looking back over his shoulder, the other man tipped him a smile, eyes half-lidded, as if he were watching for a reaction, “He was smart alright…I’ve always had a thing for the smart ones.”

          As several previous data collections rapidly rearranged themselves in his mind, Mycroft blinked, blinked again and then met Lestrade’s eyes, “I did not know you were…”  He was never at a loss for words, but he was also not equipped for the sudden departure of this night.

          “Out?” He turned a bit, one capable hand absently stroking the silky wood of the banister, “It was easier, growing up, to just date girls. Working class neighborhood, different times in those days…and then, when I joined the force…” he shrugged expressively. “I was never exactly closeted, but I rarely let people know I’m not exactly straight all the way.” He grinned suddenly, “But I turned fifty back during the early spring, and I decided I’d given women enough of a go—Christ, I married three of ‘em and look how that turned out. So…yeah.” He shrugged, looking just the tiniest bit uncertain, for all his usual brash confidence. No doubt he was regretting haven spoken so freely.

          “I am…honoured you shared with me,” Mycroft said, disliking how formal he sounded. But…he was formal. And Lestrade surely knew this. At least he didn’t shout “Boring!” whenever the conversation wasn’t about him, as his younger brother did. Still, he wished he had an easier manner; this seemed like one of those moments that, with the right words on his part, could turn into brandies before the fire, shared woes of coming of age as a homosexual in the eighties. Lestrade would have been born the year the Sexual Offences Act was passed, and yet, it would have meant very little in the life of a boy growing up queer in a small country village. It had meant very little to him, growing up lonely and isolated by his brilliance; it wasn’t until the age of twenty-three that he had even experienced sex for the first time.

          Oh dear, he really should not be standing here thinking about sex while Gregory Lestrade was in his home, and they were about to enter his bedroom. Mycroft came to and realized he had been motionless on the stairs as his mind ticked through his thoughts. Lestrade was leaning against the wall, looking comfortable, and as if he had been that way for some time, “You back with me?”

          “Inspector—I am sorry.” How to explain?

          “’s’alright. I’m used to it. Sherlock does it too, goes off in his mind.”

          “He would hate you for inferring that we are at all similar in any manner.”

          “Younger brothers, that’s their way. Making their big brother’s life a hell, all while secretly admiring them and wanting to be as cool.”

          He had never been cool. Of that much he was certain. Not even when he went to university and Uncle Rudy gifted him a pristine 1967 Aston Martin DB5. Well, it _had_ been pristine, until a few years prior, when Sherlock stole it while horrendously high on god knows what and wrecked it. He was still working on restoring Q but his schedule was merciless and he hadn’t nearly enough time to devote to him. “You had younger siblings, I take it?” Mycroft asked politely, trying to shake off his intrusive thoughts. What was wrong with him this evening? Was it merely the fact that for once there was someone in his home? Was it that it was this particular man? He was usually much better at compartmentalizing his thoughts.

          “Nope, I was the baby of the family. Terribly bratty, always following my brother Mark around everywhere, spying on my sister.”

          They were outside his bedroom door now, and as much as Mycroft wanted the problem inside dealt with, as painful as his own bumbling was, he found himself reluctant to rush to the reason the other man was in his home. “Have you many sisters?”

          What did that smile mean?

          “Surprised you don’t know that. I thought the day after you first heard tell I was letting your brother on my crime scenes you’d have compiled a file on me so thorough you knew my preferred brand of underwear and how I took my coffee.”

          “Boxers, and you drink Americanos,” Mycroft said automatically, and then winced.

          But Lestrade only laughed, “See? You do know. Or you can read me.”

          “I try not to delve too closely into my—acquaintances—and unless I find it necessary, I mostly filter all of that.”

          “Bloody hell, can you teach Sherlock how to filter it?” Lestrade took on an exaggerated look of pleading, “Any of it, his mind, his mouth…Christ, that would make confrontations between him and Donovan a lot less harrowing.”

          “Sherlock knows how to filter, he simply chooses not to.” Mycroft felt his mouth pinching with disapproval, “He does delight in causing mischief, if nothing else.”

          “Yeah, god forbid he get _bored_ ,” Lestrade snorted, and they shared a look of mutual exasperation with the younger Holmes. He ran a hand through his hair, which looked even more soft and silvery in the rosy light of the hallway sconces. “Think he’s half the reason I’ve gone gray.”

          “Only half?” Mycroft joked.

          That earned him a quicksilver grin, “Well, I _have_ been married three times, mustn’t discount that.”

          “One must consider all the data,” Mycroft agreed gravely, but his face must have given him away—his face _never_ gave him away—because Lestrade laughed, causing the most attractive crow’s feet to crinkle around his too-perceptive dark eyes.

          “You’re good at that—Sherlock told me you basically run the country, and anyone can tell you’re leagues ahead of him for smarts, so I bet you could tell me what percentage of this was attributed to your brother and what could be laid at my ex-wives doors.”

          “I’m a minor—” the automatic lie died on his lips; not only was Lestrade giving him a knowing look but…he found he didn’t want to lie. “I am rather clever, I suppose,” Mycroft said instead, “but even I need more to work on.”

          Lestrade’s eyes were so very, very wicked and brimming with humour. “I’ve got lots of that data you’d need,” he said, hand brushing Mycroft’s as he reached for the door handle. “Why don’t I take care of this for you and then I can dish the dirt and you can give me your consensus?”

          There was a certain connotation to “take care of this for you” which in this proximity to his bed made Mycroft wish devoutly that Lestrade were here for another, more intimate, more personal reason. But that was not the reason, and he certainly wasn’t flirting with him. His own isolation was causing him fancies. Perhaps it was time to discreetly signal to Arthur, his sometime bed partner, that he wished for an assignation.

          That idea felt quite flat.

          But…Lestrade was freely offering to linger once the reason for his visit was done, wasn’t he? Perhaps it was just because, as he had already mentioned, he didn’t want to be home alone, but a man as handsome as the Detective Inspector wouldn’t need to look to Mycroft Holmes for congenial company when any man or woman in their right minds would be more than happy to alleviate his boredom. So could it be that he was indicated that it was his choice, his preference, to spend more time with Mycroft?

          “I warn you now,” Mycroft said, gesturing at the door if only so he could remove his hand from the burning touch of the other man and collect his wits, “Once you pass through this door you are completely on your own. I have no intention of entangling this intruder.” He turned the old-fashioned key in the lock, “That is why I called upon you for assistance.”

          “Did you lock him in?” The amusement was clear, and Mycroft flushed.

          “I…might have done.”

          “He’s hardly going to open the door and come strolling out, now is he?” He was laughing at him. But it was (he hoped) a teasing sort of laugh, such as friends might give, and not derisive.

          “You cannot trust them,” Mycroft insisted, shuddering again at the thought of the hideous creature waiting on the other side of the door.

          “Mycroft,” Lestrade said, calling by his first name as easily as if he had always done it, “It’s just a rat.”

          “Disgusting, disease-carrying spreaders of filth.”

          “Had a pet rat as a lad. Cute bugger, always up on his wee hind feet, begging for carrots.”

          “Please,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes, “Don’t.”

          A muffled snort, but at least the laughter was mostly smoothed off his face by the time Mycroft opened his eyes. “Too bad I didn’t stop to borrow John’s Browning,” Lestrade joked, assuming a ninja stance and flourishing one hand over his head, “here goes!”

          He opened the door and walked through, yelping with surprise when Mycroft quickly shut the door. With Mycroft safely in the corridor, of course.

          “Hey,” it sounded as if he were laughing again, “Did you just lock me in?”

          “No. The door remains unlocked; however I shall remain hither whilst you dispose of the creature.”

          Even through the quality English oak of the door, he thought he could hear a muffled, “ _Hither._ ”

          “What was that?” Mycroft inquired.

          “Nothing! You stay safe out there and—hey! Mycroft…

          “Yes?”

          “What am I supposed to be using to trap this rat? I’ve got bollocks of steel and all, but I’m not touching it without at least gloves, and I’d prefer to have something long between it and me. You have a grabber?’

          “A which?”

          “You know, a grabber? One of those jobbies with the long handle and pincers on the end.”

          “Oh, a _grabber_.” Yes of course, silly of him not to have known what _that_ was. He never had been particularly handy around the house, however. He extracted his mobile and pulled up the Amazon store app; surely they had grabbers. Perhaps he could have one delivered via drone within a few hours. Or just call Anthea and have one delivered within ten minutes. But no, it was Anthea’s night off. She had been very clear that he was not to call. Or text. Or email. And under no circumstances was he to come to her flat and disturb her before six a.m.

          Sometimes Mycroft wondered who the true boss of their relationship was.

          “Mycroft?”

          “Yes?”

          “Have you gone away to your Mind Palace again or did you go get me a grabber?”

          “I’m just searching for them now. Oh…did you know there was a horror film called Grabbers?”

          “I did. It’s brilliant. I’ll loan you my DVD. Later…once I’ve been allowed out of the room.”

          “Oh!” Mycroft cracked the door open, peering down at the floor cautiously, lest the beast try to escape, and then into the eyes of a very amused and exasperated Detective Inspector. “Erm, sorry about that. I suppose it isn’t quite good manners to shout through the door at one’s guest.”

          “Nor to hold one’s guest hostage,” Lestrade said, but he was grinning again.

          “I haven’t got a grabber. There are work gloves in the garage. Oh!” He smiled with relief, “And a ballpeen hammer!”

          It was not his imagination that his last sentence had earned him a frankly appalled look. “Mycroft, I am not going to hammer a rat to death in your bedroom!”

          “Yes, you’re right,” Mycroft admitted, thinking it over, “The mess would be considerable, and that rug is a particularly fine Oriental which belonged to my grand—”

          One of Lestrade’s hands appeared, wiped down his face slowly and smoothed out the expression on it. He clamped his fingers over his mouth and regarded Mycroft quizzically.

          “Yes?”

          “I’m not a psychopath, Mycroft…I’m not hammering the rat to death regardless of your rugs. It’s not about the bloody rugs—Look, why don’t you just keep the door closed and tomorrow you can have that PA of yours call an exterminator bright and early?” He smiled a little too encouragingly, as if he were talking to a not very bright school child. “This place is huge, I’m sure you have a spare room.”

          “But…my things.” Mycroft thought sadly of his favourite flannel pyjama bottoms, his incredibly old and worn, incredibly _soft_ The Clash t-shirt, which he’d had since his university days and which he only wore on nights when he was in need of comfort and planning on relaxing utterly. It had been a distressingly long day (long week really) and he wanted to simply unwind in comfort. And his eyes were beginning to bother him, it was past time he took out his contacts and donned his eyeglasses. And there was his wrinkle reducing cream—which may or may not work but at least his skin was nicely hydrated—not to mention his oscillating toothbrush, and his unfinished copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ (damn Anthea for introducing him to the series!) and…

          “What do you need? I’ll fetch it.”

          How kind of him to offer, so as to spare him the necessity of entering a space defiled by the unclean little pestiferous rodent. How appalling the idea of the other man seeing his shabby lounging clothes, knowing he wore glasses, snickering over his reading material. It didn’t bear contemplation. “No, no, I—I’m perfectly capable of getting my things.”

          Lestrade opened the door wide enough for him to slip inside, and kindly didn’t comment on the nervy way he looked about before moving further into the room. “I’m sure it’s hiding from us, you probably won’t see it again.”

          “I want someone to see it again—just before they obliterate it.” Mycroft grumbled, hurrying to collect what he needed.

          “Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”

          “I have no desire to share my bedroom with a rat.”

          “What a bedroom it is, too.” Lestrade gave a little admiring whistle. “I think half my flat could fit in here. God, you have a fireplace in here! And comfy looking chairs…must be a treat to sit here on cold nights, sipping on something tasty—ooh, this abandoned glass looks like it is holding something very tasty indeed—and reading…” his tone changed, lightened, filled with delight, and Mycroft winced, hunched over his bureau as he realized that his book had just been discovered. “ _Harry Potter?_ Mycroft Holmes, _you_ are reading _Harry Potter?_ ”

          Tucking his clothes tightly under his arm, Mycroft slipped cautiously into the en suite, casting a look every which way including up lest the rat slink up on him and take him unawares. Relatively confident it wasn’t in his immediate vicinity, he opened the top drawer in search of the shaving kit he kept always packed and ready for his frequent travels. “Lots of adults have read the series. It’s practically a contemporary classic.”

          “Oh I know, I’ve read the books twice…I just didn’t think you—” He stopped abruptly, and Mycroft, coming through the door, gave a strangled gasp as he saw the furry form scurrying across the floor. Fumbling, he dropped his belongings and wavered between darting for the door and leaping onto the bed.

          Before he could un-root his feet, Lestrade had snatched up the barely touched snifter of Paradis Rare and tossed it off like it was water. Mycroft cringed; the utter dis _regard_ —but then forgave him immediately as the brilliant man moved quick as a snake striking and upended the glass over the rat, trapping it against the 19th century Persian. Breathing hard from excitement, Lestrade looked up in triumph, “I got it!” He looked down as he weighted the glass with the paperback copy of _The Philosopher’s Stone,_ and began to laugh.

          “What on earth?” Mycroft managed, trying to gather his scattered belongings.

          “You…Mycroft, that isn’t a rat…it’s a mouse!”

          “I fail to see the difference!”

          “It’s the size of my thumb!” He went off into fresh laughter, and Mycroft burned with embarrassment. He was always to be the butt of the joke, it seemed.

          “I—when I saw it I merely— _I_ have never owned a pet rat so how was I to know—”

          Lestrade put his hand over Mycroft’s, which he was ashamed to see was shaking slightly. He wasn’t scared, rather he was embarrassed—nay, humiliated—and his nerves were wound so tightly he would have happily screamed, if it wouldn’t have served merely to highlight his complete and utter—

          “Hey, hey now. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to…I was just a bit amused, that’s all. But I shouldn’t laugh…I’ve got a thing about snakes.”

          Mycroft blinked and slowly looked up, startled to see just how close they were. Awareness of the weight, the heat, the texture of Lestrade’s palm resting comfortingly over his hand washed over him. “Perhaps my distaste is somewhat out of proportion, but—” He shook his head, “When I was still performing my own legwork…there was an…incident with some… _unfriendlies_ , and rats were...involved,” He licked his desert-dry lips, tried for a careless chuckle, “I’ve—never liked them since.”

          “Can’t blame you,” Lestrade’s dark gaze was steady, sympathetic; he reached for the items Mycroft had been collecting, “If you’ve got a magazine or something, I can slide it under and take the little guy out, let him go,” Humour touched the corner of his mouth, but Mycroft was warmed by it, not chilled; it was clear he wasn’t laughing at him, “Unless you want to arrange for execution in the morning.”

          “Alas, tradition requires a blind fold and one last smoke, and where would one find a cigarette that small?”

          Something more than laughter lit Lestrade’s eyes; he seemed delighted at Mycroft’s attempt at whimsy. “Not easy to do _last minute_ , anyway. So…magazine and humane release in the flower beds across the way or firing squad at dawn?”

          “One must exercise a due amount of clemency, or the populace rebels,” Mycroft said, standing and moving to collect the newspapers strewn across the foot of his unmade bed. There was a coupon circular printed on fairly heavy, glossy paper…that should serve nicely. He certainly wasn’t going to offer the other man any of the magazines he kept in the false bottom of his bedside table. Even thinking about their contents in the presence of the other man made heat prickle over his skin.

          “Yeah I suppose you’d—” He broke off, and Mycroft looked at the item in his hands. Oh Lord, was his humiliation to be complete this evening, or was there still more to come? “You like _The Clash_?”

          “I…yes.” He couldn’t help his tart tone, “I was a teenager once too, you know.”

          “Yeah, but…The Clash…” Lestrade handed him the t-shirt, fingers brushing. “Favourite album?”

          “ _London Calling_ is of course iconic…but I prefer _Combat Rock_.”

          The look of a fellow enthusiast lit the older man’s face, “That’s mine as well. Best track?”

          “’This is a public service announcement,’” Mycroft said solemnly in response.

          “’With guitar,’” Lestrade supplied, and they smiled at one another. “God, who knew? Mycroft Holmes, closet punk rebel.”

          “You laugh, but I was very edgy—or tried to be,” Mycroft said wryly, thinking of his younger self. He hadn’t always sought solitude and avoided socializing.

          “Oh you don’t have to tell me. I had the works, safety pin through the eyebrow, cherry-red Mohawk, the most disreputable leather jacket ever in existence.”

          “How…colourful.” He must have been glorious. For just a moment Mycroft saw him there, young Greg Lestrade, in all his youthful rebellion and beauty. And then he considered the man in front of him, and knew he couldn’t possibly have been as interesting or thoughtful or beautiful as he was now. Some things truly did improve with age.

          “I was a cocky little shit—it was all an act though. Inside I was full of fear and doubts and worry about the future.”

          “I’d say you turned out quite well,” Mycroft said softly, far more softly than he intended. He gathered his things into his arms and watched as Lestrade deftly manoeuvred the circular under the snifter and bore the tiny captive down the stairs.

          “I’ll just let him go and give you back your glass and then we’ll both get out of your hair.”

          Why would he even bother? Asking would be so foolish. He was never foolish.

          Watching Lestrade stride toward the door, Mycroft felt a sense of loss at the idea of letting him—letting this moment—go. “Greg?”

          He turned, eyebrow arching, and Mycroft became aware he had called him by his first name. Fighting down the urge to blush, or poker up and let the moment go, Mycroft took a step closer, “I’ve interrupted your evening, put you to no small amount of trouble…the least I could do is offer you a drink.”

          That indefinable light was back in his eyes. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

          “No,” Mycroft said, fingers clutching at the soft material in his arms, “It would be—it would be a pleasure, acutally.”

          He smiled then, voice quite soft when he answered, “Let me just get this little one to his new home and we can have that drink.” Turning, he threw casually over his shoulder, “Don’t stand on ceremony on my account…it’s late, I’m sure you’ve had a long week…why don’t you change into your things you brought down?”

          Certainly not, was Mycroft’s first instinct. But…his eyes were burning and the idea of taking out his contacts was overwhelmingly appealing. And quick on the heels of that admission was the thought that his lounging clothes would feel like bliss after more than eighteen hours in his suit. No matter how well-tailored, nor how fine the material, at a certain point a man just wanted to be relaxed. Ignoring the faint tremor in his fingers, Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt, laid it on the vanity in the downstairs powder room, his undershirt following right after. He ignored his decidedly off-putting reflection (he never looked in the mirror while undressed if he could avoid it) as he stepped out of his trousers and removed his socks. Slipping into his clothes felt better on more than one level.

          Looking in the mirror as he removed his contacts and exchanged them for his black-framed glasses, Mycroft fought the urge to put the trappings of his power and control back on. In less than a half hour Greg Lestrade had already seen him far more honestly and unabashedly as he was than Arthur had in seven years of sexual encounters. He couldn’t resist a quick glance once he was dressed; he didn’t perhaps look as ridiculous as his imagination had painted, but he stared with dismay. His arms (too long, too pale, not toned enough); his shoulders (not broad, a bit too rounded from years behind a desk); his freckles which he’d always hated; his receding hairline (awful but no way to change it at present); he eyed the drape of his t-shirt and hoped it didn’t reveal the slight pudge at his middle that he could never quite lose, except for those few years in university when he had been his thinnest and his mother had finally threatened him with sectioning if he didn’t’ stop starving himself.

          “It does not matter what you look like,” Mycroft said scornfully to his soft-eyed reflection and turned his back on his fears. Leaving his things where they were, Mycroft left without allowing himself any further time for self-pity; if he delayed any longer he would cave to his discomfort, as well as no doubt alarm the man waiting on him.

          “Better?” Was all he said, although those dark, dark eyes made short work of flicking over him. Allowing himself to regard him as he did so, Mycroft was both relieved and puzzled to see that the other man did indeed seem to find what he saw pleasing. His suits were his armour and his plumage. He couldn’t possibly prefer him like…this.

          “Yes, thank you,” he managed, moving past him and into the library, which was his favourite room in the house. “I apologize for my informality, but, as you said, it has been a very long week.”

          “No need to apologize,” he said easily, pausing so he wouldn’t walk into Mycroft, who had stopped to reach for the light switch. “Man has a right to relax in his own—wow.”

          Mycroft was pleased. His library was private, it was not one of the more public rooms of the house, and he had never entertained in here, unless one counted Anthea. He did not (although he would never be so foolish as to let her know). Couches too old and deep and squashy for company flanked the marble fireplace with its high mantel and brass andirons shaped like horses heads. Long sapphire blue velvet curtains covered the four windows, but the rest of the walls were given over to the original walnut bookcases. The book cases were (mostly) neatly arranged but there were crammed with books, books which even a casual inspection would reveal were very well-worn and very well-loved. There were so many that many were stacked on their sides on top of others (although he would only ever treat modern books that way, his reverence for the older, more fragile books and his few first editions was too great).

          He watched Lestrade looking about, taking it all in. He watched him as he registered surprise that the area above the mantel did not display an oil painting, the mantel itself was not home to _objet de art_ , but rather a rather messy spill of open DVD cases. Instead of a landscape or an ancestor or a horse, he had mounted a flat screen LCD. The side tables held lamps, of course, but also a box of tissues, a clutter of remotes, a sea shell from his first visit to the sea as a child; a pair of trainers had been abandoned under the coffee table, which was strewn with half-read books, magazines, and a box of Maltesers. There was a soft (admittedly wildly costly) blanket wadded at the end of the left-hand couch, and the pillows looked (and were) big and soft and perfect for napping or watching movies.

          “You live here,” Lestrade said at last, turning to face him, expression bemused.

          “Well…yes.”

          “I don’t mean it’s your house…this is your _home_. This room right here is you, isn’t it?”         

          Not the public man. Not the government man. Just the man. “Yes.”

          Mycroft had the sense that Lestrade wanted quite badly to say something; he didn’t use his ability to read people to determine what it was. Increasingly his desire for an organic experience with this man was overriding his default setting of suspicion, derision and reserve. “Thank you,” was what finally came out of the silver-haired man’s mouth; it seemed both sincere and at the same time not at all what he wanted to say.

          “Drink?” Mycroft asked.

          “Sure.” Lestrade had wandered off and was inspecting the bookshelves, the speakers mounted on the wall, the small stereo/CD/radio combination on one of the shelves. He was looking at the small collection of vinyl on the shelf above it, the much larger collection of CDs; without touching he was twisting and turning his body to read the spines, smiling at the jewel cases on top. _Combat Rock_ and _Sandinista!_ and Vivaldi and Enrico Caruso, The Who and Cream, Wagner.

          “Have you a preference?”

          “Whatever you’re having is fine…sorry for finishing your drink upstairs, but I figured you didn’t want me throwing it on your rug. It had a nice aftertaste.”

          Mycroft laughed silently, and poured two (clean) snifters of Paradis Rare. The man had excellent taste, if an undiscerning nose. “Here you are,” he said politely, extending the glass. Lestrade crossed the rug and took it from him.

          “Is a toast in order? Or is that not something you do with…brandy?” He peered into the depths of his glass.

          “Cognac,” Mycroft informed him, touching their glasses together with a slight chime, “Cheers.” The French considered clinking glasses rude, but he had always like the sound. It wasn’t often he heard it, as he primarily drank alone.

          “No that’s not right,” he objected, warm hand landing heavy on Mycroft’s bare wrist. He was thrillingly, exquisitely aware of his bared arms, his naked skin. “You have to meet one another’s eyes during a toast or its seven years of bad sex.” Dark eyes met Mycroft’s for a moment and then flicked away, “Besides, that toast was rubbish.”

          “We must avoid seven years of bad sex, by all means,” Mycroft said, for some reason thinking of Arthur, whom he summarily dismissed from his mind. A much more fascinating companion was here in the flesh.

          “God yes,” Lestrade said, sounding far more…gravelly and passionate…than he had probably intended. He raised his glass, eyes firmly on Mycroft’s, “To the wounded, the warriors and the mouse running free in the roses.”

          Mycroft felt laughter bubble up, but suppressed it, and matched his solemnity, “To the kindness of…”

          “Not strangers,” Lestrade said softly, touching their glasses. Without breaking eye contact he took a swallow. Shock widened his eyes. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, staring at the glass in his hand. “This is—Mycroft…”

          “Yes,” Mycroft agreed, smiling now, “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

          “I’m ruined,” the other man said sadly. “Bet this costs more than my monthly rent.”

          “Mm,” Mycroft said.

          “Best enjoy every sip,” he said, walking carefully to the sofa and settling in. “Some moments have to be savoured, y’know?”

          “Yes,” Mycroft said, debating internally whether it would be too bold to sit on the same couch. Of course, it was seven feet long, there was plenty of room… “Some moments must.” He lost the thread of the conversation and his own thoughts when he passed behind him and saw the fine, soft line of hairs at his neckline, recently barbered, the skin faintly less tan where it had been revealed. He had just taken a sip and moaned faintly. Mycroft’s step faltered, but was thankfully unobserved.

          “So,” Lestrade said, shifting so he could face him a bit more as Mycroft eased onto the cushion at the end. They weren’t sitting uncomfortably or inappropriately close, but it still felt warm, intimate. “You clearly have eclectic taste.” He held up the book Mycroft had been reading last, a paperback which had been lying open, face down, on the coffee table. “ _What Belongs To You_ ,” he read, turning it so he could read the blurb.

          “The author was thrown out by his father, when he was quite young, for being homosexual,” Mycroft said, sipping his cognac. “He went on to become an opera singer, a writer, a poet. It’s quite interesting.” He cleared his throat, “You’re welcome to borrow it when I’m done.”

          A quick upward flick of his eyes, and he returned to perusing the book, but a smile played at his lips. “I’d like that, thanks.”

          The book got them started on a somewhat halting conversation about growing up queer, what it had meant for them both personally and professionally. Unsurprisingly they had both found it easier to remain quiet about their orientation when it came to their careers. “The world ‘n’ all,” as Greg said parenthetically. He’d insisted Mycroft couldn’t call him Detective Inspector all night. “No one calls me Greg anymore. It’s either boss or my title, or Lestrade. Although your brother always has to take the piss and call me Gareth or Gavin.” He laughed when he said it though.

          “No family?”

          A definite shadow crossed his face; Greg looked down at his hands holding the empty snifter, “Eh…m’father found out I was—when I was sixteen—they…” he trailed off, looked up, eyes raw. “Haven’t seen any of them in more than thirty years.”

          Mycroft’s heart lurched. For all he avoided his parents and despaired of Sherlock, they were his family. They had never once cared that he was gay. In the face of the ugliness of the world, they had always been there, no matter how vociferously he had denied needing them. “Greg…I am sorry.”

          “’s’alright.”

          Clearly it was not. Mycroft leaned in and touched his forearm, causing him to raise his head and shoot him a look brimming with vulnerability and old memories. “Truly I am sorry. My thoughtless question has assuredly unleashed painful memories for you.”

          Greg set his snifter aside, put his fingers over Mycroft’s with a friendly squeeze, “You couldn’t have known—well, it’s you, so I suppose you could have—but you weren’t prying into my insides like I’m some puzzle, you were asking a question as a friend.”

          A friend.

          “It shouldn’t still be so painful,” Greg sighed, already moving on; unaware he’d jerked the foundation out from under Mycroft. “My life is good, mostly, and I’m doing alright for myself. Very lucky to have my health, some good friends, job I love for all it half kills me sometimes. I’m doing alright, when I consider what a scared little shit I was back then.”

          “And your siblings? Do you not have any contact?”

          “Mark and Rose used to slip me some money when they had any, helped me out a bit in the early days, when I was sleeping on friend’s couches, strangers floors. But Rose married a real arse of a fella who hated “poofs” and didn’t mind saying and we lost touch—it just got to be too hard to see her and know she loved someone who felt that way.”

          “Your brother…Mark…surely he?”

          Wearily his head tipped back and he stared at the shadowed ceiling. Mycroft studied his stubbled cheek, wondered how it was that he kept saying the wrong things. He who was renowned for his diplomacy.

          “Like I said, he helped me out a bit at first.” Greg was silent for a long time, staring at his empty glass. Mycroft wanted to offer him more to drink but he didn’t want to disturb this moment with bumblings. “But he died in a motorcycle accident a few years later.” A tear dropped to his leg, darkening the camel colour of his trousers, “Bastard wasn’t even twenty yet.”

          They sat in silence until suddenly the other man gave a damp laugh and wiped at his face, “Christ, Mycroft, I’m sorry. I’m not usually one to turn on the waterworks. Can’t recall the last time I cried.”

          “It’s—not alright, I hesitate to say that, as it quite clearly is not—but, please, Greg, don’t feel that you in any way committed some social faux pas. I’m…I’m actually quite…touched…that you shared with me.”

          His smile was twisted with sadness, but quite genuine, “Feels…not _good_ …but, guess it’s good _for me_ to talk about.” He sighed lustily, slapped his hands on his thighs, “God, what’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?”

          Mycroft rose with alacrity to refill their glasses, and while he was up he touched a long match to the logs standing ready on the andirons, adding a twist of newspaper. He worried briefly that it might seem too much as if he were trying to set a scene for romance, but despite the lingering feeling of attraction he felt pulling him towards the other man, he truly just thought the moment called for the cheerful comfort of a fire. His earlier tension and exhaustion had dissipated, and despite the emotional ups and downs of the evening, Mycroft was entering a state of relaxation he usually only experienced when alone.

          _“_ _Sláinte_ _,”_ Greg murmured, holding his eyes as they lightly brought their snifters together.

            _“_ _K nashey vstreche.”_ Mycroft returned, sipping elegantly.             “Terrible show-off,” Greg teased.               “You’ve found me out.”             “I suppose I’ll ignore it in favour of your really excellent drink.”             “Holmeses,” Mycroft mused, “buying friends since 1553.”             Greg laughed outright, “I wouldn’t put it past your ancestors, but I don’t think you care enough to bother. You like quality in everything,” he held up his snifter, glanced it around the room in illustration, “and you’re not going to be any different with friends. Authenticity, am I right?”                        In a word, yes. “You may have come rather close to the truth of the matter.”             “And yet here you sit with me, crummy old cop, barely out of the closet as he staggers toward his golden years.”            “You’re neither crummy nor old, and not remotely decrepit.” Mycroft sipped so he wouldn’t gush. He needed focus, control, or he was in danger, having drunk just enough, to cease caring about how much of a potential arse he was going to make of himself. “And while I hope your future is indeed golden, you shouldn’t castigate yourself for not venturing out of the closet any sooner. It was perhaps not time.”             “Likely not,” Greg said, tipping his drink at him in thanks for what he had said; he tilted his head to one side, settling down deeper in the sofa cushions and stretching his legs out. “But Christ, I feel ancient compared to all these gorgeous young things out there. I mean, honestly, who’s going to want me? And Jesus, Mycroft, do you have any idea of the confusing labyrinth of the vocabulary alone? Do you?”                        “I do not.”                        “It’s a whole other world and I’m lost and too old. Definitely not cool enough.” He shook his head, “I squandered my youth in fear, denial and avoiding homelessness; I barely had time to appreciate what was in front of me before I avoided it.”                        “I know what you mean,” Mycroft said, sitting up a bit, feeling agitated, “I—as you can no doubt guess, I was not popular when I was younger, and I didn’t so much avoid others as _they_ avoided _me_. But I suppose if I had made an effort there might have been more—”             “More what?” Greg asked, letting his head roll against the sofa back until his cheek was pressed against the leather and he was regarding Mycroft with his dazzling dark eyes, “What did you miss out on, Mycroft?”                        “More.” He shook his head, “Just…more of everything. I thought it wasn’t for me and so I—” Mycroft took a deep breath and told the truth, “I told myself that it wasn’t that others didn’t want me, but that I didn’t need them. And then it got easier and easier to make that the truth. The only truth.”             “Jesus we’re a sad pair,” Greg said, not without humour. “For two such badass blokes, we sure are pussies when it comes to our personal lives.”                        “There you have it in a nutshell,” Mycroft agreed.             “And,” Greg said a long time later, when they had settled more deeply into the sofa, the fire burning down; they had each become lost in their own thoughts and half-formed regrets, “it’s so damned intimidating to walk into a club full of people half your age and expect you’re going to actually meet someone you have fuck-all in common with! I mean, you can’t even hold a conver _sation_ in those places. It’s desperate.”             “It truly sounds like hell,” Mycroft agreed fervently, horrified at the very idea of entering a loud, noisy club on purpose. And to cull such a place for a potential sexual partner or mate…he was in no way equipped for surviving such a thing.             “It wouldn’t be so bad if I had some queer friends,” Greg went on, “just friendly types to hang out with. Catch a play or go hear some decent music with. It’s not that the straight blokes I know aren’t great, they are, but they rarely want to talk about some of the things I do... Our experiences aren't always the same.” He sighed, sounding equal parts frustrated and tired. Mycroft was suddenly achingly aware of how late it was. “I lost most of them in the divorce, too.”             “That is a problem,” Mycroft mused. “Perhaps you could meet someone online? Oh, I don’t mean for sex, just…surely there are forums for gay men our age who are looking for friends, or companions for outings.”                        “Seems…I dunno, tawdry. Or sad. I’d much rather it happen naturally, the way friendships do. If only…”             “What?”             “…it’s a long shot, I know, but…would you ever consider going out with me?” Greg hurried on, shooting the wings off of Mycroft’s fragile hope before it could ever take flight. “I know crowds aren’t really your thing, but I think we’ve got a friendly, whatcha call it, a rapport, and I’m sure we could find some places that wouldn’t be too hideous.” He smiled appealingly, “It might do us both good to hang out with a friendly face. And we know we have some things in common, and god knows we’ve spent hours talking!”                        “That would be potentially…pleasant,” Mycroft said cautiously, tamping his disappointment firmly down. “Allow me to research some appropriate venues for us, and we can choose an outing.” He sounded like a tour guide. Greg would surely abandon his inadequate company with swiftness once he found himself mobbed by eager men, young and old, who wished to spend time with him.              “Really? I mean, that’s great! But I’m surprised is all…I thought you’d shoot me down for sure.”  
  
            “If it is not a success, I will not hesitate to say so,” Mycroft said dryly.              “Always be honest with me, I can take it,” he grinned, and after a bit more chat and an exchange of emails, he summoned an Uber and Mycroft waved him off from his front step, wondering how his evening had come to this. He wouldn’t say he regretted calling him for assistance, nor the totally unexpected turn his night had taken, but Mycroft was very much afraid his heart or his ego one would suffer. Thinking of the truly enjoyable evening he had just passed, he resolved to consider it worth any passing unhappiness he might face down the road when his status as wing man inevitably netted Greg a suitable mate. Sighing, he turned and entered his house, locking the door and setting the alarm. It was time to put himself and his foolish notions to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft finally get their night out, and it leads to more. But the question is, are they both headed toward the same thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's POV for this chapter.

_Can't really believe I'm here,_ Greg thought, looking around the nightclub, which was thankfully not too full. He looked over at his table mate, who looked uneasy despite the light attendance. Thinking about it, Greg had decided that surely his...guest...? would be more likely to relax somewhat if the place weren't packed. So he'd picked a Tuesday night and chosen a venue which he had historically found to be laid back and enjoyable. They were here to see a fairly obscure jazz combo that he'd stumbled onto by accident earlier in the year. It wasn't the venue or the music or the weekday night that had thrown him...it was the presence (at a decent distance from his own chair) of the always cool and unreachable Mycroft Holmes. If it hadn't been for the unprecedented events of that Saturday a few weeks back, he knew he never would have been sitting there with the other man.

 

          “Ready for that drink yet?” Greg asked, holding up his own Bombay Sapphire and tonic and rattling the ice invitingly. He had no intentions of actually getting drunk, not with work the next day, but a touch of social lubricant seemed called for. He was pretty comfortable with himself, and he wasn't exactly nervous around Mycroft, but neither could he say he was entirely comfortable either. And he wasn't even sure _why._ That night at Mycroft's house should have been the time for discomfort, and yet he'd been strangely at ease. First bemused, then amused, then oddly charmed. He'd spent more time thinking about their outing than he had most dates he'd been on.

 

          “Perhaps a little something wouldn't come amiss,” Mycroft allowed, looking about with unconscious assurance for a waitress. As if summoned, a waitress appeared almost immediately.

 

          “What can I get you?” She asked, smiling at Greg with a look he recognized as interest. He found, to his surprise, that he wasn't interested. She was attractive, and he was, he supposed, actually bisexual, but aside from his decision to try entering the dating world after almost thirty years of passing himself off as straight, he just wasn't drawn to her. It wasn't that kind of night. He wasn't desperate to get a leg over, and despite a little awkwardness, he had been looking forward to tonight.

 

          Greg gestured to his still mostly full glass, and she turned to Mycroft, smile not quite as winning. Greg wondered how she saw him: if she saw a rather forbidding looking middle aged man dressed with more formality this place usually saw, or if she saw a man who had stepped outside of his comfort zone and was venturing into a new world, simply because a man he shared only a passing acquaintance with had expressed his loneliness and desire for a companion for nights out. _He's lonely, too,_ Greg realized, which he somehow hadn't realized entirely until just now.

 

          “You're staring,” Mycroft said, voice just pitched high enough to be heard by Greg, but not carry much past their table. He wasn't even looking at Greg, but somehow he knew.

 

          “I am,” Greg admitted, deciding there wasn't much use in prevarication. He was talking to a Holmes, after all. “I was just thinking that you're lonely as well...aren't you?”

 

          Mycroft did look at him then, humour and discomfort battling for dominance on his fine features. “Who _are_ you, Greg Lestrade?”

 

          Greg hid his smile in his drink, “Do I really need to answer that, or are you just being philosophical?”

 

          “In my world, no one is ever so...open.” Mycroft barely glanced at the waitress as she sat his drink down, “For a man who deals daily in the harsh realities of life, a man a who has first-hand knowledge of how harsh the world can be...you are remarkably...” He paused delicately, holding Greg's eyes, “...vulnerable.”

 

          “I have enough harsh realities in my day to day life,” Greg agreed, finally looking away, needing a breather from the intensity of the man's casual gaze. _He must be_ unstoppable _in an interrogation_ , he thought with faint awe. “I try not to lie anymore...I had enough years of hiding myself.” He shrugged, looked back with a smile, “Time to leave myself open.”

 

          “I envy you,” he thought he heard, but the canned music ended as the musicians came on stage to scattered applause. Greg joined in enthusiastically; he had kicked around in a hopeful but ultimately forgettable band for a few years when he was young, and he vividly recalled how heartening it was to receive a welcome. The house lights dimmed as the lights on the stage settled into an intimate blue glow. As the female singer adjusted the microphone stand, making a light joke about her height, Mycroft set his drink down and settled himself quietly in his seat, prepared to listen. Greg hoped he enjoyed the musical experience.

 

          As good as the music was, Greg found himself drifting; rather than watch the stage, or the crowd, his eyes were drawn back to his companion. Mycroft was not dressed significantly different from any other occasion outside of his home, which Greg had ever seen, and yet he somehow exuded an old-world glamour which Greg found surprisingly stirring. The black suit was perfectly tailored, of course, and coordinated beautifully with the finely pin-striped waistcoat, deep crimson tie, pocket square and the flash of red lining the coat. Instead of the more sedate gold pocket watch and matching tie bar and cuff-links he normally sported, Mycroft's platinum watch, platinum and abalone cuff-links, and simple platinum tie-stud gleamed subtly in the low lights. It was all a very evocative and attractive look, but what Greg had the most trouble tearing his eyes from was the black fedora tilted elegantly over one gray eye.

 

          Although his own charcoal-gray trousers, dark gray blazer, collarless shirt and navy, V-neck jumper were very nice, Greg knew he was outclassed. He'd never aspired to be that stylish, and he could never hope to carry himself with the panache which Mycroft displayed, but he was aware of a faint feeling of...disappointment? They might maintain a cautious friendship with a little work, but they would never complement one another in any significant way. _Not looking for a relationship with the man_ , Greg lectured himself, wondering why he found his mood sinking at the idea. A friendship would probably be stretching the bounds of what they could reasonably expect to find between them. Even though he was quietly hoping for a relationship to come his way, the idea of it being with Mycroft Holmes was ludicrous.

 

          Mycroft was the swank mob-boss; Greg was the low-rent muscle, he thought with dark humour, for some reason unable to stop picturing Mycroft as a morally compromised private detective, or elegantly sinister gangster from some old black and white movie with Art Deco sets and rapier-sharp dialogue. There would always be a disparity between them.

 

          Maybe sometimes, he thought, whimsy gripping him, the mob-boss and his hired thug locked themselves in the office and tore into one another. His breath came faster, picturing rumpling Mycroft's smooth perfection, imagining those well-kept hands sliding over his body. Would he be an experienced and confident lover? Taking his time, in no hurry to rush. Maybe he was reserved and starchy and desperate for someone rough like Greg to show him an entire new way of feeling…Or would his habitual calm get stripped from him by his passion, letting it take over as he consumed his partner?

 

          Hand trembling slightly, Greg took a sip from his drink—grimacing at the melted ice which had watered down his gin and tonic—and surreptitiously rolled the icy condensation on the outside of the glass against his cheek. He needed to cool down. He honestly had no ulterior motives in inviting Mycroft to spend time with him. Sure, once or twice that night at Mycroft's, he may _possibly_ have thought he felt a kindle of desire between them...might even have had an inkling that Mycroft felt it too. And okay, so he’d even found himself flirting once or twice, as if unable to help himself. But his goal here was just to have someone with a similar experience as a gay man who was also looking for the odd night out as friends. He thought he might have found that, and he wasn't going to go bollocksing it up by allowing his thoughts to wander into dangerous and pointless territory in front of one of the most observant men in the world.

 

          Even if he was rather curious now as to what said man looked like in the midst of a shag.

 

******

 

 

          “I could use a cigarette,” Greg said on a sigh, standing on the pavement with Mycroft after the final set. “Something about drinking always increases my cravings.”

 

          “How long has it been?”

 

          “Gave them up nearly ten months ago, when I left number three,” Greg admitted, reaching for the box of matches he kept in his pocket. He extracted one and tucked it between his lips. Gesturing to his arm, “Patches help, but I find myself needing something in my mouth or I go mad.” As he said he words he thought of how it sounded—especially given his thoughts of earlier—and winced.

 

          “I've substituted cigarettes for a run on my treadmill,” Mycroft admitted, slipping one hand in the pocket of his trousers and tilting his head slightly, “And if I truly cannot resist, I have one puff and then flush the rest down the toilet.”

 

          “God, that's will power!” Greg exclaimed. “No wonder you're so fit if you go running every time you need a smoke.”

 

          “Hardly,” Mycroft murmured dryly. His chin lifted slightly, and his gaze shifted over Greg's shoulder. “My driver has arrived...would you care for a ride home?”

 

          Greg nearly waved the offer aside, but then he reconsidered, as a chauffeured ride would be far preferable to public transport. “That'd be great, thanks. Sure you don't mind?”

 

          “Not at all,” Mycroft insisted, gesturing for him to go first. Greg slid across the seat until he fetched up against the opposite door. Mycroft joined him, closing the door and touching a button. “The Inspector's home, please, Charles, and thank you.”

 

          “Minor my arse,” Greg teased, barely speaking above a whisper. He saw Mycroft's mouth lift in a smile, and grinned to himself. “Not going to ask how Charles already knows where I live.”

 

          “It's his job.”

 

          “Oh sure.” But Greg was teasing; he didn't really mind if Mycroft's chauffeur already knew where he lived. Maybe he'd spent too much time with Sherlock, but it seemed perfectly reasonable that it should be so. “So, what did you think?”

 

          Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, as if he were giving it consideration, and not merely going to toss off a polite answer. “I've heard more skilled musicians, but they play with passion, even if not always technical brilliance. And the singer has a lovely voice...quite honestly, she could be with a much more well-known combo if she chose.”

 

          “They're still having growing pains,” Greg allowed, “but, like you said, they have passion. I've enjoyed watching them perform the few times I've seen them. And each time they improve. Hope you enjoyed it despite the lack of technical brilliance.”

 

          “Technical brilliance,” Mycroft allowed, “is not everything. Sherlock has technical skill, most certainly on a level which might be called brilliance--” at Greg's disbelieving snort, he turned his head, amusement threading his voice, “Hard to believe, I grant you, as his normal method of playing seems purely designed to torment with groanings and twangings and screeches...he's always delighted in assaulting listeners when he is displeased or bored—which is nearly all the time.” He sighed almost soundlessly, “Had he continued his lesson, dedicated himself properly to his music, he might even now be a concert violinist. He certainly has talent as a composer, when he bothers to apply himself.”

 

          “The waltz he played at John's wedding was beautiful,” Greg allowed. He paused, “And what instrument did you dedicate yourself to?”

 

          The low, “Oh very good, Inspector,” made him laugh. Mycroft raised his voice, “I was, of course, perfect, as a child, and _I_ studied diligently without prompting.”

 

          “And what did you study?” Greg prompted, stupidly charmed by Mycroft's casual self-congratulatory tone. He'd delivered it as if he were joking, but it still echoed with truth. He rather supposed a man like Mycroft was both naturally immodest and yet modest at the same time. He could still recall the raw admission Mycroft had made that night in his library, admitting that he hadn't been popular. _As I'm sure you can imagine,_ he'd said, as if of course Greg would have supposed him to be a pariah.

 

          He wondered, not for the first time, what the hell kind of childhood the Holmes boys had had.

 

          “Mummy started me on the piano.” Mycroft went on when it was clear Greg was going to keep on staring at him expectantly, “And once I had mastered that, I was given lessons in violin, cello, oboe and mandolin.”

 

          “Christ,” Greg breathed admiringly. “I'm alright with the guitar, but that took me years.”

 

          Mycroft waved a negligible hand, “I've a certain facility for mathematics and rhythm.” He paused, cleared his throat, “I erm, I have perfect pitch...so music and languages come easily to me.”

 

          “And how many of those do you speak?” Greg felt slightly dazzled.

 

          “At last count, over a dozen.”

 

          “A dozen!” Okay, more than _slightly_.

 

          Mycroft cleared his throat, looked out the window, “Many language share a common background, and there are often--”

 

          “Don't act like it's nothing,” Greg scolded, realizing the other man was trying to downplay his astounding ability, “That's amazing, Mycroft, and really impressive! I only speak fluent French because of my grandparents and my father, and my Spanish is feeble at best.” He tipped his head, considering, “I'm sure your photographic memory helps, but either way, it's still amazing.”

 

          “I've an eidetic memory,” Mycroft corrected him automatically, and then made a low sound in the back of his throat, as if he’d just caught himself in a faux pas.

 

          “You can correct me if I get something wrong,” Greg said more gently than was his norm, feeling suddenly tender. This stupendous man seemed genuinely wary of normal social interaction. A wave of depression lapped at his confidence; honestly, what did the man see in a middle-aged divorced man, who had barely made a showing of himself as a detective inspector? He had nothing to offer him; a rescue animal was more likely to provide him with enjoyable companionship than Greg Lestrade. “You're not a dick about it like Sherlock.”

 

          Mycroft made a noise which perfectly encapsulated exasperation, annoyance and fondness. “My brother is impossible and he delights in ruffling feathers.”

 

          “Not you, though, eh?”

 

          “Not unless they require a little judicious ruffling for precisely planned political purposes,” Mycroft said primly. His smile flashed in the sulfurous wash of light from the passing streetlamps, “Normally I am, if anything, a professional feather _smoother_.”

 

          “And who smooths your feathers?” Greg asked, only realizing that he sounded more than a little suggestive after his own words seemed to echo back at him in the slight silence which followed. He cleared his throat, hoping for casual but knowing he was probably just managing awkward. “I mean, you come home from hellaciously long days dealing with all the idiots and who do you vent to?”

 

          “I find a good deal of satisfaction and comfort in the peace and silence of  home.” Mycroft shifted and looked out the window. “I will admit, however, that sometimes it can be too quiet and peaceful.” He fiddled with the seam of his trousers, “I usually listen to music, then, or absorb myself in a book.”

 

          “You have a varied selection, from what I could see,” Greg complimented, “You've probably got music I've never even heard of.”

 

          Mycroft's head turned back toward him, and out the window behind him, Greg saw that they were approaching his street. “If my schedule permits, I try to sample the music scene when I travel. And then of course there's the internet.”

 

          “Maybe you could send me suggestions of some things to listen to,” he ventured, wishing it wasn't too late to invite the man up for coffee. Although if he were being honest, it was probably a good thing. He needed to get his equilibrium back. Spending this much time with Mycroft was wonderful, but combined with the hours they had sat on Mycroft's couch and talked, he was aware that he was feeling too drawn to the younger man. Time to cool his jets, as his step-daughter Gerrie would say.

 

          “I'd be happy to,” Mycroft agreed, as the car slid to a stop at the kerb. “I had a—most entertaining time, Greg, and I thank you for the invitation.”

 

          Hand on the lever, he hesitated, “I'd invite you up...but it's already gone eleven and we've both got work tomorrow...”

 

          “Heavens, no. I certainly understand.” Mycroft smiled, and although the uncertain light made it hard to parse, Greg rather thought it landed somewhere between polite and genuine, “I shall send you a list of some of the artists and songs I think you might like.” It was his turn to hesitate, “Perhaps you could share with me? I'd be interested in what interests you.”

 

          “Yeah, sure.” Greg was warmed, and it made it hard for him to crack open the door and put one foot out on the pavement. “I'll try not to raise your hair too much.  


          A low laugh answered him, “I shall let you judge how hair-raising I found it when next we meet...” Another delicate pause, which Greg was beginning to suspect, was Mycroft's bid to gather courage to put himself out there emotionally. “It is my turn to host. I was thinking...dinner? Have you any particular dislikes I should avoid?”

 

          Greg slid out, leaned back in the car, “Naw, I'm pretty adventurous. Just do me a favour, will you, Mycroft?” At the inquiringly raised chin, he went on, “Not too swank? I'm afraid I'll let the side down.” He couldn't help himself, he winked, unsure if it would even be visible with his back to the light, “No one could take their eyes off you tonight. And is it any wonder?” Following this with a low whistle, Greg closed the door and turned to cross to the door of his building. His mind kept telling him that he had essentially nothing in common in Mycroft with which to support even a friendship, and yet the rest of him easily forgot his doubts and kept shoving him into flirtatious behaviour.

 

          Maybe the younger man rose above all that sort of thing. After all, he was forty-six and unmarried, unattached, and not as different from his younger brother as either of them thought. It was possible he hadn't even interpreted any of Greg's actions as flirting.

 

          “Might be time to get on Scruff or Grindr and let off a little sexual tension,” Greg muttered, fitting his key in the lock and letting himself into the shared entrance before he locked up and checked his mail box. He tucked his mail in his coat pocket and took the stairs up to the top floor of the narrow building, unlocking the triple locks (he'd been a cop for many years and always installed new locks, to excess he'd been told, when he moved in anywhere new) and letting himself into his home with the usual feeling of gratitude and pleasure. After his last divorce he'd hastily moved out into a tiny, depressing flat near the Yard. Gerrie had taken one look at it and told him it was a grotty shit-hole that was going to have him wanting to slit his wrists in less than three months. She hadn't been wrong. It was pretty grim.

 

          By the time the papers came through, and he'd felt able to move on and breathe, Greg had done some thinking on his lonely nights on the fifth-hand sofa. Fifty had been approaching like a freight train; it had been coming up on thirty years since Mark died, and he couldn't stop thinking about his regrets. It had felt like the time had arrived for him to be brave...to reach for happiness and not settle for almost-good-enough.

 

          Luck and circumstance had led him to his current place in Camden Town; the rent was about what you might expect for a studio, only he had the added bonus of being the only flat on the top floor, no residential neighbors to one side, a miniscule walled terrace and a spacious layout. Well, it was spacious only because it had no interior walls. The flat had been part of a jeweler’s factory in the 1920s, had gone downhill in the '60s, and had been converted to a residence which changed hands several times over the next few decades. Recent gentrification and the expansion of a vibrant young crowd into the area had meant a new owner, a face-lift and seen the building separated into two flats. He'd done some work himself on the place, finding it a bit too grubby-student-housing for his taste.

 

          He dropped his keys into the little wonky painted ceramic dish which Gerrie had made him when she was ten, and tossed his mail next to it. Hanging up his coat, he took off his shoes and stuck them away in the small bookcase he'd found on the street. All it needed was a bit of wood glue to put the shelves back right, then a thorough clean and fresh coat of paint. Now he had some place to collect his mail until guilt got the better of him, and some place for his half dozen pair of shoes to live. Padding into the kitchen area in his socked feet, he debated making himself an espresso, but sense won out and he rummaged about for the pitcher of filtered water he kept in the refrigerator. He drained half of it in one go, then stood sipping the rest, leaning against the butcher block work top and thinking about the unexpectedly great night he'd had.

 

          Before he could talk himself out of it, Greg pulled out his mobile and fired off a text.

 

_I had a great time. Thanks_

_for coming with. Can't always_

_say what turn my week might take_

_but Friday suits me for that dinner._

_{Sent 23:19}_

Telling himself not to be a coward, Greg hit send without giving himself time to second guess the impulse. Maybe it was too pushy of him to set a time just a few days in the future. Mycroft might like more notice, might have plans, might—most reasonably—have no desire to see him again so soon. After all, weeks had gone by in between the suggestion of spending time together and the reality.

 

          He was brushing his teeth while the water in the shower warmed when he heard his mobile—which he had balanced on the edge of the pedestal sink—ping. Greg spat and rinsed out his mouth, reaching for his phone with one hand even as the other wiped over his damp mouth. Standing naked in his bathroom, whilst reading a text from Mycroft felt intimate, as if the other man was aware of his state of undress.

 

_I enjoyed myself and_

_though I too have little confidence_

_in my schedule remaining open,_

_do believe we can look forward to Friday._

_I'll email you the time and place, shall I?_

_{Received 11:26}_

         

          Grinning at his phone—he supposed this was as close to eager as the man might get—Greg sent him a please and thank you, and tacked on a reminder for the musical suggestions he'd promised. He heard his phone several more times before he finished showering, and had a surprisingly difficult time in waiting to check his messages. However he really hated having to replace his phone, and he had notoriously bad luck with dropping his mobiles. Shivering, he dried, and reminded himself to bump the heat up a touch once he was dressed.

 

          Normally he slept in the nude, but it was chilly, and he stepped into a pair of drawstring flannel sleep bottoms and pulled on a plain t-shirt before he turned up the heat, turned off the lights and slid into bed, plugging in his mobile and setting his alarms. Responsibilities taken care of, he leaned on one elbow while checking his messages.

 

_Their guitar work and fingering_

_is quite remarkable. Given your own_

_confessed interest in the instrument, I thought_

_you might enjoy their sound._

_< <Link attached>>_

_{Received 23:28}_

_Also, I am quite taken with the beauty_

_of his skill. I confess a preference for the cello,_

_of all the instruments I can claim any proficiency for._

_< <Link attached>>_

_{Received 23:29}_

_She is a most...outspoken and modern_

_woman but despite the differences in some of_

_our world views, I find I enjoy most of her music._

_< <Link attached>>_

_{Received 23:32}_

_Rodrigo y Gabriela I'm familiar_

_with, but not Zuill Bailey...not gonna lie_

_Myc, I don't know much about Bach suites_

_but I'll give it a listen._

_{Sent 23:39}_

_Ani Di Franco? Really? Okay...THAT one_

_surprised the hell out of me. Talk about left field_

_:D You didn't have to send these right away but_

_thanks all the same._

_{Sent 23:40}_

_Greg, if I may ask you a favour...?_

_{Received 23:43}_

_Ofc Mycroft, what is it?_

_{Sent 23:45}_

While he waited for a response—which seemed rather slow in coming, Greg searched for good examples of a couple of artists he wanted to challenge Mycroft with. Not that he thought he would be too outraged after his admitted interest in classic punk and rock, and his rather surprising admiration of Ani Di Franco. He finally went into his YouTube account and shared the links to Mycroft's personal email, eyebrows rising as his phone buzzed in his hand. Mycroft was certainly keeping the texts coming. He hoped everything was alright. Emailing finished, he switched back to his messaging app and read through the texts.

 

_I would prefer it if you called me_

_Mycroft. I've never been fond of the_

_nickname Myc._

_{Received 23:46}_

_Please do not take it personally,_

_however I associate it with childhood_

_and my years at university...neither of_

_which are particularly happy times for me._

_{Received 23:46}_

_It isn't that I don't welcome_

_fraternity and socializing_

_with you. Merely that I cannot_

_bear the name and all it recalls._

_{Received 23:47}_

_…_

_I realize this may sound_

_cold and rude, but please_

_be assured that I am most_

_receptive to continued_

_outings. I wouldn't want you_

_to think I am maintaining any_

_type of distance. I don't allow ANYONE_

_to call me Myc._

_{Received 23:47}_

_…_

_I hope this hasn't soured you_

_on our association._

_{Received 23:48}_

_Dear me. It's late. My_

_apologies. You have an early start_

_and I myself must attend to my_

_own rest for I've an overseas call_

_which comes early. Thank you_

_again for a most diverting evening._

_We shall have to see about that dinner_

_sometime, won't we? Schedules permitting._

_Good evening to you, Inspector._

_MH_

_{Received 23:49}_

          The phone rang long enough that Greg was beginning to suspect Mycroft had either silenced his phone or was avoiding him. Finally it was answered, although Mycroft didn't say anything.

 

          “Mycroft?”

 

          “...Hello.”

 

          “You're a champion texter, you know that? I was trying to answer you but they kept coming through like a wave.”

 

          “I'm...sorry?”

 

          “You don't need to apologize. I just wanted to tell you that of course I won't call you by any nicknames...last thing I want would be to make you uncomfortable. I wasn't trying to be too familiar or anything,” Greg rolled his eyes at himself; next thing you knew he'd be talking like a dowager duchess. “I didn't take offense, or whatever it is that you're twisting yourself up about.”

 

          A silence, and just when he was starting to think Mycroft had gone mute... “It seems I may have been a tad hysterical.”

 

          Letting a laugh ghost out of him, Greg rolled onto his back and grinned at the darkened ceiling, “I wouldn't say hysterical.”

 

          “Possibly a bit of an overreaction, hmm?”

         

          “Perhaps just a bit.”

 

          “It has been some time since I have socialized merely for personal reasons. I'm used to walking a veritable mine-field of potential disasters in my professional aegis, and yet it seems I am somewhat at a loss when it comes to simple human interaction.”

 

          Greg did laugh that time, “Oh God, Mycroft...none of us know what the fuck we're doing. It's all smoke and mirrors.”

 

          “How disappointing...I long admired your zesty approach to a social life. I rather hoped you could show me the knack.” His tone was lighter now, self-aware, and the humour made Greg smile in return.

 

          “I'll show you my knack any time you like.” A moment of stunned silence was followed by a stifled giggle from Mycroft. Appalled at his lapse, Greg felt the heat of his face. “Jesus—I, I didn't mean it like _that_.”

 

          Mycroft had control of himself once more, “No, of course not, Greg. I realize it was merely an innocuous comment which had a certain juvenile connotation. It wasn't intended to be interpreted like that by me.”

 

          Glad they could move past it, Greg nonetheless felt bothered by something he couldn't put his finger on. Assured at last that Greg was not insulted by his refusal to answer to a nickname, and with promises on both sides to keep the other updated if their Friday night outing was to be canceled or postponed, they got off the phone. Setting down his mobile and rolling over to sleep on his side, Greg tucked the blankets in and tried to clear his mind. He was pretty good, after all these years, at dropping off to sleep where and when as needed, having had plenty of experience with trying to slog through work on very little sleep.

 

          Something kept nagging at him, and it wasn't until he replayed their conversation that he was able to pin it down. It was the faint emphasis Mycroft had given to the word me when he said _It wasn't intended to be interpreted like that by_ me _._

As if, Greg reflected, the idea of anyone trying to woo him with a silly double _entendre_ was ludicrous. The man, he decided, had very little confidence when it came to himself if he honestly believed Greg couldn't be remotely attracted to him.

          Greg's eyes opened back up as realization hit him, and he stared into the dim expanse of his flat, not noticing the shape of shadows in the faint wash of street light filtered through his curtains. _Was_ he attracted to Mycroft?

******

         

          As usual, work left very little time for dwelling on his possible (probable) attraction to Sherlock Holmes' brother, in fact, his Wednesday was so fucked that it didn't end until Thursday was bleeding into Friday. He and Sal were dragging through the final deluge of paperwork, eyes heavy and stomachs sour with too much caffeine and too little sleep and decent food. They were neither of them in particularly good moods, but then, after this many years they were used to one another and there was little either one could do to offend the other.

 

          “I'd like to get home before we’re due in in the morning,” Greg grunted, when he came back from yet another coffee-fueled trip to the loo, and found her leaned back in her chair, staring at the acoustic tile ceiling some mid-level pencil-pusher had decided was a good idea in the 70s. “If you think you could tear yourself from your daydreams.”

 

          “Piss off...boss.”

 

          “That's right; any insult is acceptable as long as you soothe my massive ego.” Greg set another cup of coffee—at this point as dark as tar and as potent as jet fuel—on her desk and walked past to his own office.

 

          “”s in the human resources guide for how to handle your cock of a boss at gone midnight on day two of completing paperwork for the world's most immobile case ever,” Sal groused, sitting up, taking a grimacing sip of her coffee and then pulling the laptop back in front of her. “How can we have so many witness statements, security tapes, and telephone leads and yet have nothing.” She grunted and stretched, cracking her knuckles hard in that way that always made his joints twinge in sympathy, “What say we get this sorted and get to bed?”

 

          “I'm exclusively dating blokes now!” He called from his office, “Much as the idea of an exhausted tryst with you appeals, I'm gonna say no.” Greg hadn't advertised his bisexuality—ever--and his divorce and lifestyle shift hadn't really changed that. Despite knowing that most of his co-workers would probably…alright, possibly, be tolerant of the fact that he fancied men, there were definitely those, especially among the older detectives (like Gregson, that hideous arsehole) who would take issue. So far, about the only people who knew were Sal, and Dimmock, who he had run into at a gay bar earlier in the year—that had been a fairly embarrassing encounter for both of them—but at this time of night they were the only ones around.

 

          “That's the last thing I need to complete my poor decisions when it comes to inter-office fraternization,” She snarked, hitting print and pulling another file from the (thankfully) dwindling pile, “A sad shag with your old carcass.” Appearing in his doorway with the freshly printed report and a pen for him to sign off, she finished sweetly, “Sir.”

 

          “Christ, are you classing me with Anderson?” Greg snatched the report from her hand and dashed off his signature after scanning it, “I know someone who won't be getting a rec from her boss come time for a pay rise unless she smartens up and at least admits I’d be better in bed, if not devastatingly better looking.”

 

          “That's sexual harassment,” She said primly, dark eyes dancing, “Best watch yourself, gov.”

 

          “Ta.” Greg waved her off, “Nearly done here...bring me half that stack and we might be out of here before two.”

 

          “What a novel idea...haven't seen the inside of my flat much lately.”

 

          It _was_ nearly two by the time they powered down their computers, turned off the desk lamps and logged out at Reception, where the night clerk was half asleep over his Sudoku. In the dark, echoing car park, Greg reached automatically for his cigarettes, cursing when he remembered. “Ride?”

 

          “'s outta your way,” But she was already getting in the passenger side. Letting her head drop back against the seat rest, Sally sighed from the toes of her sensible pumps. “Christ it feels good to think I might actually get four hours of sleep in my own bed.”

 

          “Take eight,” Greg indicated and pulled onto the mostly empty street, “You earned it. And things are a bit stale on this right now. Unless something breaks for us I think we can call it quits for the weekend tomorrow.” He just hoped he wasn't tempting fate and he might actually be able to meet Mycroft for that dinner after all. He hadn't heard from the other man since their slightly awkward conversation late Tuesday night. But then, to be fair, he had been busy as fuck, and there was every chance Mycroft had been just as occupied, if not more so.

 

          The CD he'd driven into work listening to Wednesday morning had begun playing automatically, and Greg had turned it down to a soft background noise, suitable for easy conversation, and or as a pleasant white noise if they were too tired or dispirited to talk much. 'Lola' by The Kinks was playing, and after a few minutes Sally shifted in her seat and he knew she was about to ask him about the case, about the poor young woman whose death had come about because some complete waste of air took exception to the fact that she had recently begun transitioning. Greg didn't want to think about the case at all—although he knew that wasn't entirely reasonable, he also knew he would be haunted by her at odd times over the years. It was just that way with some cases. Some victims crawled inside you.

 

          “Sir—Greg—” That was an indicator that she wanted to ask as friend, not a colleague; Sally Donovan rarely called him by his first name. “Do you mind me asking...you never talk about a family...?”

 

          His chest felt ice cold. It had been a long time since anyone at work tried to dig beneath the surface. “Sally.”

 

          “I just...since you and #3 divorced,” His lips turned up reluctantly at her casual bitchiness, “You don't. I mean. Do you...do you have any family?”

 

          “Think I was hatched from an egg?” He teased, hoping she would follow his lead and let it go.

 

          “Dinosaur egg, maybe.” But it was automatic. Sally was relentless when she cared to be. It was an excellent quality in a Sergeant, less pleasant when all of that focus was directed at him. He couldn't decide if he was touched or annoyed that she cared enough to pursue this. “No...I mean, you never talk about parents or siblings or anything.” She was watching him, but he refused to turn his head at all, focusing hard on the road. “It's just...the holidays are coming up, and Mum and Gaz and I were talking, and I wanted—we wanted—to invite you to join us. To dinner. If you want.”

 

          Although he knew her well enough to know she was sincere, and he was touched, Greg was also aware of how stilted her offer was, and how downright strange (and possibly inappropriate and unprofessional) it would be if he spent the day with her and her very nice mum who was always checking to make sure that he and Sally weren't dating, and her much younger brother who was getting ready for his A levels and was unbearably cocky. The invitation had a touch of pity about it, even if it wasn't meant that way.

 

          Last year his divorce had come through shortly before the holidays, and while by that point he had been grateful to see the end of the marriage, and had experienced a certain exhilaration, Greg had also made sure to volunteer for the few days right around Christmas, when most people wanted to be with family. Working had been an outlet for his confused feelings and the freedom which had warred with the self-pity. It was early enough that he hadn't even been thinking about the holidays, but now that Sal mentioned it, they were looming, and if he didn't want to accept her pity invite, he'd have to have a damn good reason. And reheated Chinese in his joggers while binge watching old Top Gear episodes wasn't going to cut it. And God help him if he accepted another invitation to one of John and Sherlock's painful parties.

 

          “Thanks, Sal, means a lot that you'd ask.” He did look at her then, flashing a smile as his brain sped through possibilities, “But I've actually got a friend coming for dinner on the day...he's unattached as well, and we've already got plans.”

 

          She seemed relieved, “That's great...just had to ask.”

 

          “Thanks,” he laughed cheerfully, reaching to turn the radio up slightly, “'ppreciate you making sure I wasn't going to be home weeping in my lager and contemplating self-harm.”

 

          She snorted, and crossed her arms, stifling a yawn, which quickly spread. By the time he pulled up in front of her building, they were both on the verge of crashing. “Gonna be alright to drive home?” She inquired, swinging her long legs out of his car and standing up with a stifled moan.

 

          “Yeah, no problem. See you at noon, Sergeant.” He waited until she was inside the building, the door closed and locked behind her, before he took off. Cracking the windows slightly to take advantage of the eye-wakening cold, Greg hit shuffle and turned up the volume, singing along with a determinedly light heart, and refusing to think about either his single status, his lonely Christmas, nor the thoughts of his family which always worsened around this time of year.

 

          Home, he shuffled out of his clothes and into bed, not bothering with a shower or brushing his teeth, both of which could wait ‘til morning at this point. Setting his alarm, he spared a thought for Mycroft, but he was too tired, and it was too late, to think about messaging the other man. In the morning, he decided, rolling onto his stomach and hugging his pillow with gratitude.

 

******

 

          Eight hours wasn't enough, but it was a start. Taking a slightly too hot, slightly too long shower, Greg gave himself an extra close shave and slapped on some aftershave, the swanky stuff which Sally had given him for his birthday. For once he took the time to blow dry and style his hair, instead of toweling it and letting it air-dry any which way. Of course, because he'd made an effort, and because he cared, it looked pathetic. _Maybe it'd look better if I get it all cropped off again_ , he mused, finally turning away from the mirror and going back into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. He'd never hear the end of it if he dyed it, but maybe it would be less obnoxious if he cut it short again.

 

          It had been too long since his last trip to the shops, and the only options he had for breakfast was either a rather mealy apple or week old and highly suspect leftovers. Pitching them both in the bin, he lifted the liner out and set it by the front door to carry down with him when he left. He'd just stop for decent coffees and breakfast, treat Sal. She deserved it, even if she had tried to get him to talk about his family, and had tried to ambush him into accepting her Christmas Day invite when he was tired and vulnerable.

 

          Deciding that it would make him look like a right cock if he wore something too attractive to work, Greg turned off the lights, fetched the rubbish, and jogged down the stairs, nearly tripping over the tangle of bikes in the entry. He grunted in annoyance and pushed them to the side, making a mental note to have another talk with the students who shared the ground floor flat. They were alright kids, just thoughtless. He liked their dogs, an elderly Golden Retriever, and a cuddly Corgi, better than he did the kids themselves, but overall they were alright. Hopefully he'd get off work on time tonight, have time to stop in for a word—although it _was_ Friday and he'd be lucky if he saw them for three days—and then pop upstairs to change into something a little less penal and a lot more eye-catching before his date with Mycroft.

         

          It wasn't until he was halfway down the street that he realized he was thinking of it as a date.

 

          Sally was appropriately grateful for the latte and the fancy spinach thingy which was his default order for her. They even got to finish their food at their desks before they were out, off on a call. It was a busy day, but by four it was becoming clear they weren't going to be breaking the case anytime soon, although they still had evidence to be processed by the labs, and they had a few last witness statements to take. Greg ducked into the loo before they left, and sent Mycroft a text, letting him know he was potentially going to be running slightly behind, but that he was hopeful he wouldn't have to reschedule.

 

          Of course his phone didn't buzz in his pocket until they were seated precariously in doily-covered arm chairs in the stifling, cat-pee scented sitting room of the vic's next door neighbor, a rambling, verbose bore of a woman who just might have a nugget of information for them, as she apparently never left her seat next to the window which overlooked the street. Letting Sal take lead—and ignoring her side eye-- Greg murmured sweetly in the old ladies direction and checked his phone as discreetly as possible.

 

          _Impossible as it seems, my own_

_day appears to be remaining on_

_track for me to leave on time. Unless I_

_hear otherwise, I shall plan on meeting_

_you at the restaurant at 8 to allow_

_us both sufficient time._

_{Received 17:43}_

 

 

          Probably not a date it they were meeting there. He put away his phone, telling himself it wasn't a date and he was glad of it. Just looking for a friend, that was all. That there was a hollow feeling in his stomach at the idea was just foolishness or hunger.

 

Escaping gratefully, they drove back to the Yard, finished up their notes for the day, agreed to go home and get some actual sleep and spend their weekends doing something other than brooding. “I might even put on a skirt and go out on the pull,” Sal grinned evilly, backing toward the pedestrian exit, intent on her bus home. “So let's hope no one too important gets murdered this weekend, yeah?”

 

“Don't jinx us!” Greg yelled in mock outrage, laughing as she gestured rudely at him. He drove slightly too fast, made it home in decent time, and thought about knocking on the downstairs neighbors door, thought better of it when he saw the time, bounded upstairs to race through the world's fastest shower, and a quick run over his cheeks with his razor. “Can't look too shabby,” he muttered, telling himself it was because Mycroft was always so impeccably groomed, and knowing he lied.

 

A bit too much product, a few anxious minutes in front of the mirror, and finally his hair was semi-acceptable. Tonight was less casual than Tuesday (he'd taken the time to Yelp the restaurant for a dress code, and so he chose black leather boots, dark denims, and a pewter gray button down with thin burgundy stripes, with the sleeves rolled up over a black thermal top. After a moment of hesitation, he tied a doubled leather thong hung with a small sterling silver medallion Gerrie had given him around his neck, and hunted out the cologne he used when he was intent on getting laid.

 

 _Not that I'm expecting that, of course,_ Greg told himself. He almost believed it, too.

 

It was no use though. From the moment he walked into the restaurant—marginally less pretentious and up-market than he had originally feared—and stopped to look around, Greg knew. He caught sight of Mycroft just before the other man rose to his feet politely at the side of a small table discreetly tucked away near the kitchen. “Mate,” Greg said breathlessly, shedding his navy pea coat and nodding. His heart was racing in his chest, and all he cared about was not announcing by his every word and deed to the other man that he had just been hit by a wave of desire at the sight of him. He sat down, running a nervous hand over his hair, and looked around the restaurant, rather than at the too tempting sight across from him. “Never been here before.”

 

“Their sushi is, I feel, the best to be had in London,” Mycroft offered, needlessly straightening his napkin and silverware. “And of course, if you don't care for sushi, their hibachi is quite popular, and the menu features several excellent choices for traditional Japanese cuisine.”

 

“Never actually had Japanese food,” Greg admitted, finally looking at him. Oh Christ, the man was undeniably arresting in his three piece suits; he'd been unforgettable in his pinstripes and fedora; tonight he was devastating in a lush emerald green cashmere jumper over an ivory, open-necked shirt. His faint freckles, the creaminess of his fair skin, both were off-set by the dark jewel tone, and it even brought out some heretofore unseen auburn highlights in his dark hair.  Scared to look too long at the other man's face, Greg found himself watching as once more Mycroft made minute adjustments to his place setting. God help him, the man had sexy _hands._ And was that a wrist watch? Why was that so appealing?

 

Thankfully a petite waitress, demure and professional aside from a shocking pink streak in her hair, arrived to take their drink orders, and once they had settled on flat waters and a shared carafe of warm sake, she departed, to allow them to discuss their order. “If you would permit...” Mycroft looked at Greg's lost face as he stared at the fairly simple menu. “I could order a selection of all my favourites, and we could share them, communal style. It would allow you to try more, that way.” He began rattling off the names of dishes, too fast for Greg to find them on the menu, and the selection began to feel vast and overwhelming.

 

“Won't that be too much food?” He worried, hoping that Mycroft wasn't overdoing it in an effort to ensure he got something he liked.

 

A look he didn't understand passed briefly over Mycroft's fine features, and he sat back. “My apologies. Perhaps I was being too enthusiastic. Of course you must order whatever you wish.” He looked flushed, and his ears were definitely red. “I've scarcely eaten the last few days,” he suddenly said, sounding oddly defensive, “But even so I wasn't proposing we consume all of it simply because we ordered it.”

 

 _Ooookay._ He was lost. There was very certainly something going on that he wasn't getting, but rather than increase the younger man's defensiveness and unease by addressing it, Greg simply closed his menu. “Naw, go ahead and order all of it. You might not be planning on eating much, but I've hardly seen a square meal all week and I'm starving.” He grinned at the waitress when she returned with their drinks, “I'm gonna let him order since he knows what's what,” he leaned in and winked, his eyes on those steady storm-blue ones, “You'll take care of me, won't you, Mycroft?”

 

Well that was very interesting...Mycroft had, without doubt, flushed that time. He was avoiding Greg's eyes too, now, and fiddling even harder with the place setting. Having something to do seemed to settle him, and he poured their sake out into the tiny cups, and ordered with a specificity which amused Greg, who was used to Sherlock's near-compulsive refusal of all food except chips.

 

          Placing the order had re-inflated Mycroft's confidence, and it seemed to help that he had a drink to occupy his hands. As they settled into cautious accounts of their weeks (there was only so much either of them could actually tell the other) Greg hooded his gaze and let part of his mind freak out as he processed the very definite variance in Mycroft’s self-assurance, which seemed to be directly related to _him_.

 

          So apparently he was not the only one thrown off by their evening. The only question was...was Mycroft interested in him?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, if anyone is interested, the languages Mycroft can speak are: English, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Polish, Russian, Turkish, Serbian, Dutch, Mandarin, Cantonese, and Japanese.  
> The music I listened to while writing this chapter:  
> Zuill Bailey, Cello Suites for Bach; Paris Jazz Sessions; Ballake Sissoko and Vincent Segal: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert; Ani Di Franco: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert; Tash Sultana's Hypnotic Live Set at Rolling Stone; Natalia Lafourcade; The Kinks in Concert (Live at the BBC 1973); The Velvet Underground & Nico


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet night in at Greg's makes Mycroft aware of just how seductive he finds Greg's company, and leaves Greg wondering what the other man feels for him. Sally helps Greg see the depth of his attraction to Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry it has been a year since I updated! I had four months of serious health problems but that doesn't account for the other eight months. If any readers are still out there, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'll probably be wrapping the story up in one or maybe two more chapters.

          The text had read _This Saturday, say 8ish? Dress casually & bring your appetite._

It was Saturday, it was 8ish—or as near to something as ephemeral as _ish_ as Mycroft could determine—and he was _possibly_ casual, and too nervous to be hungry. All day nerves had assaulted him at the thought of his ‘I think this is very nearly a date’ date with Greg. In the three days since Greg’s off-the-cuff text he’d managed to compartmentalize the pending evening and focus on work. However, the closer to the time it grew, the more Mycroft began to worry.

          There was not really a reason to be uneasy. He and Greg had successfully socialized on three occasions now and—despite his dislike of texting—they had a flourishing text history. Both of them had busy work schedules but found time to share links to video or audio files of interesting music, updates of their days, random bits of trivia Mycroft thought Greg would find interesting, silly jokes Greg sent Mycroft…it was quite friendly. There was no indication that they were anything other than friendly (Mycroft assumed friends behaved this way), but Mycroft was uneasily aware that he was far too drawn to the other man for it to be purely platonic. What he wasn’t entirely certain of (and there had been so few occasions in his adult life where he was less than certain of anything) was what it all meant to Greg.

          Tonight would be the first time they saw on another in person for what had turned into several weeks. Greg had gotten a lead on a murder he was working, and had been basically incommunicado for three weeks, and then as he was wrapping everything up circumstances had called Mycroft to The Hague for nearly a fortnight. Since his return a further month had gone by in which they hadn’t been able to meet for more than a coffee at The Diogenes. Part of that visit had been consumed by work talk on a case of Greg’s which had intersected with some work Mycroft was doing for MI5. He was aware of an eagerness to see Greg which was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

          The bell next to the plastic window bearing a slip of paper with LESTRADE on it in careful block letters was grubby and Mycroft pressed it with distaste. The intercom crackled but Greg’s voice was recognizable, “Hello?”

          “It’s me,” Mycroft said, then added, “Mycroft.”

          “I’m at the head of the stairs,” Greg said, and the buzzer sounded the lock on the street door clunking open; Mycroft pulled open the heavy steel door and entered a small, poky foyer which smelled of rubber, damp rugs, dogs, dust and vaguely of food. There was a jumble of bicycles leaning against the wall on the right, next to the only door on that level, and on the right was a very elderly and dilapidated wooden staircase which he mounted, cringing at the very audible creaking. At the top of the staircase was a good sized landing, where a serviceable and nondescript rug covered most of the scuffed linoleum, and a pair of flourishing bromeliads grew in squat, glazed pots on either side of the flat door which stood open.

          Greg called out, “Come in! I’m up to my arse in salad dressing!”

          Mycroft wiped his feet on the rug and entered, fingers tight around the bottle of wine he’d brought, eyes automatically sweeping the room, deductions flying through his conscious mind as he took in the home Greg had chosen. “Shall I leave my shoes by the door?” Mycroft asked, seeing the neat rank and file of shoes lined up on the low bookcase just inside the door.

          “Only if you want,” Greg said cheerfully, smiling at him from the kitchen; or what would have been the kitchen if there were any dividing walls, but which was instead a space imperfectly defined by a large rolling island opposite the cabinets and appliances against the wall. “No need to stand on ceremony here. Leave the door open, will you? It gets a bit fragrant in here when I cook.”

          “I brought wine,” Mycroft offered, setting it on a corner of the island. “I wasn’t sure what you were making, so I brought a nice Beaujolais, they go with anything.”

          “Fabulous,” Greg enthused, setting aside a bowl heaped with greens and bright with peppers, tomatoes, onions, olives and what looked like artichoke hearts, “Sounds great! Do you mind setting this in the fridge? Thanks.”

          Happy to have something to do, Mycroft sat the wine on the island, and tucked the bowl on the middle shelf. There was a covered bowl on the bottom shelf, a bottle of white chilling, a plate with a nice assortment of cheese, and little else besides some takeaway containers and a selection of microbrew ales, and what must surely be every condiment any man would ever need. “May I be of any assistance?”

          The grin Greg shot him should surely be outlawed. “Nah, I got it under control. I’ll be done here in just a minute,” he nodded to the vinaigrette he was assembling, “Why don’t you pour us a both a glass of the white and pull the cheese out to soften?”

          Mycroft plucked two mismatched wine glasses from the open shelf over the sink where Greg appeared to keep his assortment of barware, and opened the wine, which was a mid-price chenin blanc. The plate had a sharp Cheddar, cranberry Brie and a wedge of Murray’s Bleu D’Auvergne along with a bunch of dark grapes. For some reason the thought and care which had gone into Greg’s shopping and preparation kindled a warm glow in Mycroft’s sternum. Rubbing at his chest absently, he set the plate on the island and after a moment took a seat on one of the two tall stools opposite Greg. “You look quite proficient,” he remarked, for lack of anything to say that wouldn’t sound too gushing. “I didn’t realize you were such an avid gourmand.”

          “Nothing so fancy,” laughed his companion, flashing him a warm smile, “and don’t be too impressed…I hardly ever cook anything.”

          “All the more impressive then,” Mycroft assured him, smiling. He sipped his wine, and allowed himself to look his fill at Greg while he was whisking the dressing, eyes on the fork. True to form, he looked delicious, but tonight was the most casual Mycroft had ever seen him. In dark, slightly distressed jeans, a navy button down, purple and gray polka dotted socks with turquoise contrast stitching, and with hair that looked as if it had been on the receiving end of a pair of distracted hands, Greg Lestrade was a sexy sight. Mycroft sipped his wine and busied his hands with opening an assorted box of crackers and arranging them on the cheese plate. Better that than ogling his host.

          “That’s sorted then,” Greg said, pouring the vinaigrette into a Mason jar and screwing on the lid. “Let me just wash these things and then we can enjoy our wine…you’re not in a hurry are you?”

          “My evening is free, barring any unforeseen disasters which cannot be handled by my office.” Mycroft laughed, “I’ve been trying to delegate; I have a horrible tendency—as Sherlock has no doubt shared with you—to hover.”

          “So you’re all mine for the night?” Greg asked, and although he appeared to mean it innocently, a fleeting look of embarrassment gave Mycroft pause. Perhaps his host was not as relaxed as he appeared. “Grand, no rush then. I thought maybe we could watch a DVD if you weren’t in any hurry.”

          “I think I’ve earned one free evening, and my staff has earned a few hours without me micromanaging their every action.”

          “Well then, how about the ha’penny tour?” Greg washed his hands and picked up his wineglass, his face suffused with pleasure at the prospect of several hours with Mycroft. He grinned, “This is the kitchen, as I’ve no doubt you can tell.” He took two steps forward, “and here we have the living area.”

          Obligingly, Mycroft followed him two steps and was rewarded with an even brighter smile. Foolishly he quite thought he’d be willing to do nearly anything to see that happy face smiling at him. “It’s charming.”

          “And over here,” Greg continued, walking past the long midnight blue corduroy sofa and crossing anther rug, “Is my bedroom.” The area was delineated from the living area by two tall, open bookcases, the sort one might find at Ikea, full of paperbacks, framed photos and a few brick-a-brack of the type one picked up on holiday. Mycroft inspected a piece of Murano glass rather than looking too long at the slightly rumpled duvet, as it was all too easy to imagine being held gently down by the other man, kissing until the sun came up. Behind the head of the bed were three mismatched folding screens, which appeared to be providing privacy for one of the walls around the toilet and shower.

          “Used to be the office of the jeweler who owned this place for decades,” Greg explained, “They added the plumbing and fixtures when they turned this place into a residence, but didn’t bother replacing the walls.” The walls were wood halfway and then the rest was glass, and the walls didn’t reach the high ceiling; Mycroft was uncomfortably aware of the bottles of wine involved in tonight’s meal, and hoped he wouldn’t have to urinate until he departed. While he felt quite comfortable in Greg’s company, the idea of using the toilet in an open-air room made him exceedingly uncomfortable. “This side the glass was all broken and the wood was damaged, so they tore it out.”

          A large, free-standing wardrobe with translucent doors took the place of one of the walls, and Mycroft had to admire Greg’s use of furniture to provide privacy, storage and walls. Even if the sheer bohemianism of it was not to his taste, Mycroft could see how it suited him.

          “It’s quite interesting, from an architectural stance,” Mycroft observed, taking in the old brick walls, tall ceiling and somewhat worse for wear wood floors which were scattered with rugs of various designs and colors. Along with the tall, narrow windows, the vintage air and the odd knickknacks, it was a charming space. “I can see you’ve made it very much your own.”

          “Needed a place that felt like home, when I found myself on my own,” Greg admitted. “I didn’t want to kick around in some depressing bed-sit, like I’d always done, or kip on a mate’s couch. Took me far too long, but I decided I was an adult and needed an adult’s place.” He laughed as he looked around, “Although to be fair maybe not as adult a place as your house.”

          “Heavens no,” Mycroft waved the thought away, “it’s far too big for just one, really, but I’ve been there for years and the idea of moving is rather stressful.”

          “Tell me about it,” Greg agreed, leading the way back to the sofa and dropping onto one end, shoving large pillows about until he was comfy. “I’ll happily stay here until I’m too old to manage the stairs…the idea of having to box everything up and move again is exhausting.”

          “Did you hire movers?” Mycroft asked, lowering himself rather cautiously to the low sofa.

          “Stupidly expensive, but I did. Just couldn’t bring myself to ask m’friends for help yet again. There’s only so many times you can pay a man in beer and pizza.”

          “Indeed.” Mycroft sipped his wine, relaxing. There was something seductively easy about being in Greg’s presence, despite his own anxiety over the level of attraction he had to hide. “And too at least moving firms are insured, should they damage your items.”

          Greg snickered, “Don’t know as I have anything worth bothering the insurance over—although I _do_ love this couch—it’s long enough for me to stretch out on, and pretty cosy. Many a Sunday morning I’ve wallowed here reading the papers and getting croissant flakes everywhere.”

          Mycroft was instantly jealous of Greg’s couch, and could not help but picture the two of them tangled on the wide cushions, socked feet rubbing fondly, sharing kisses and French pastries. Carefully, he kept the look of longing from his face, and changed the subject.

 

******

 

          “This was fabulous, Greg,” Mycroft complimented, wiping his mouth. He surveyed the wreckage of his plate ruefully. The fish had been light and flaky, but covered in a creamy sauce, with a spicy rice side dish and grilled peppers. And that was on top of the cheese and all the wine. He would simply skip lunch on the following day, and run longer on his treadmill. “You may be no gourmand, but you are a clever and skilled man in the kitchen…I haven’t enjoyed such a delicious meal cooked in a home in a long time.”

          “You’re flattering me, but I’ll take it.” Greg stood up and gathered their dishes over Mycroft’s protests, insisting he relax. Efficiently he scraped and rinsed, then put the dishes in the sink full of hot, soapy water. “I’ll tend to those later. Shall we pop in that movie? Give us time to digest before dessert.”

          _Ye gods, dessert_ , Mycroft thought. He’d be skipping breakfast _and_ lunch at this rate, and running a veritable marathon. Moving to resume his former seat on the sofa, Mycroft watched with admiration as Greg knelt in front of his rather impressive television, jeans tightening over his shapely bum. They had, after much good-natured squabbling, finally decided on Hitchcock’s _Foreign Correspondent_ , but had neglected to start the film, instead becoming engrossed in conversation throughout their enjoyment of the hors d’ouevres and then dinner. Mycroft was still slightly in awe of how easy he felt in Greg’s company, how much simple enjoyment he garnered from their conversations. The idea of being in a relationship with such a man…it made him wonder how the man’s ex-wives had ever let him go.

          Turning down the lights, Greg joined him on the couch, sitting closer than he had before, although there was still a respectable distance between them. He crossed his ankles on the old trunk he used as a coffee table and Mycroft tentatively followed suit, smiling internally at his paisley socks next to Greg’s polka dots.

          When the movie was over, Greg stood and stretched, “Fancy another?”

          Another hour and a half in his company? Such bliss! Mycroft agreed with what he hoped was casual aplomb, and when Greg went to make popcorn and pop down to take out the rubbish, he swiftly took advantage of the privacy to relieve his bursting bladder. Refreshed, he took the popcorn out of the microwave and was hunting for bowls when Greg returned. “Here,” Greg said, reaching around Mycroft for a large bowl, “We can share, makes for fewer dishes.”

          Popcorn buttered and salted they resumed their seats and watched as the opening credits to the next film began. Inevitably their hands brushed as they reached for the salty snack, and Mycroft chastised himself for the thrill he received each time. It was a good thing Greg couldn’t read his mind, he’d think him pathetic for getting so worked up over a casual touch.

 

******

 

          If only he knew what Mycroft was thinking.

          Greg was used to being sure of himself—more than once he’d been accused of being cocky, although he thought of himself more as self-assured and confident—but Mycroft kept him slightly off-step. The more time passed the more receptive Mycroft became, and the more Greg enjoyed their developing friendship.

          But that was the thing, he couldn’t tell if it was only friendship or if Mycroft felt anything more. There were tantalizing glimpses of vulnerability and longing, but they were brief and skillfully hidden. Greg sometimes found himself convinced that his burgeoning attraction was reciprocated, and then at other times he told himself he was fooling himself.

          Tonight was no different. Mycroft blushed when their hands touched while reaching for popcorn; he gazed too long into Greg’s eyes; he seemed slightly skittish. And yet he inquired blandly if Greg were seeing anyone, recommended that Greg consider a singles event he’d heard mentioned for his upcoming holidays. Mycroft was always careful to maintain a distance between them, and yet he continued to reach out by phone and email, and Greg’s invitation to his home had been eagerly accepted.

          The man was a damned conundrum and he delighted and frustrated Greg in equal measure. He’d never met anyone who kept themselves so neatly wrapped in layers.

          He was looking forward to unwrapping them and finding the true man beneath.

 

******

 

          It had been a fantastic weekend and it showed. Greg didn’t realize how broadly he was smiling until Sally looked up at him and started. Then an answering smile spread over her face, leavening her usual slightly prim expression, “Take it you had a good weekend then, boss?”

          “Great,” Greg answered, handing her the drinks carrier and moving to put the box of donuts on her desk. Before the others started wandering over, attracted by the lure of sugar, he leaned in, “Bloody fantastic, actually.”

          “Ooh,” Sally said teasingly, prying open the lid on her mocha, “Tell, tell…”

          “Not around all these gossip hounds,” Greg laughed, grabbing a donut overflowing with raspberry preserves and heading for his office. He found himself grinning as he settled in. Saturday night had been nearly perfect, hours in Mycroft’s company, great food and great films. Then somehow the next day the two of them had ended up going to the opening of a new exhibit at a small gallery Mycroft knew, and lingering over tea for ages at a hidden café on a side street.

          It was easy to see the coming pattern of their free time. And there was a lot of anticipation and delight in what was to come. Greg felt energized and enthusiastic about the future in a way he hadn’t for ages. Fuck turning fifty, he had a whole new lease on life.

          “I know that look,” Sally mock sighed, having shamelessly followed him, “Have you met the fourth Mrs. Lestrade?” Her eyes were fond and slightly concerned over the rim of her drink. Sally had had a first-row seat to the genesis, arc and explosion of marriages two and three. In fact, he might not have gotten through divorce number two if not for her steadfast support.

          Greg spluttered slightly on his drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Highly amused at what Mycroft would think of being described as “the fourth Mrs. Lestrade” his mind lingered for a minute on the idea of what a wedding with Mycroft would be like. He found himself grinning hugely, “Y’know what Sal? Maybe I have.”

            _Maybe I have,_ Greg thought, a wave of affection washing over him at the thought of Mycroft as his. Damn his hesitation...it was time to act.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The music I listened to while writing:  
> The Clash (natch)  
> Sex Pistols  
> David Bowie  
> Vivaldi
> 
> The movie Greg offers to loan Mycroft is an Irish horror comedy from 2012, called Grabbers, and it is fabulous!  
> The book Mycroft is going to loan Greg: What Belongs to You by Gareth Greenwell.
> 
> k nashey vstreche (Russian for "To our meeting")


End file.
